It's a Matter of Ennui
by BittersweetAnne
Summary: A certain Slytherin has been sent by Voldie to Paris on a nefarious errand late in the War, and get captured by the Gryffindor Princess herself. Rated M for language, abuse, consensual BDSM, and smut.
1. Chapter 1

The happiness of this music is driving me bloody mental. Someone shut this shit off. But I shouldn't say that, Edith Piaf isn't really shit. I mean, she was a Squib, but she made the best of her life in the Muggle world and her music is really good. It's just not what I want to hear right now. She's too busy singing about love and sunshine, and as I sit here in this café on le Av de Versailles across from the Bois de Boulogne, knowing that I'm rather royally fucked. I take the time to sip my espresso and brush a few stray strands of hair from my eyes. As much as it lends to my vanity, sometimes I wish my hair was different. It's too conspicuous; the bright white-blonde gleam is hard to miss, even in a city like Paris. All I want is to blend in here, to get what He sent me for, the bastard, and then get home to the war. It's funny, I pictured myself quite the coward after my first, rather horrible, failure but I find myself alright with battle now. As long as I can't see specific faces, I can pretend everyone is Saint Potter and it doesn't bother me to give them the worst end of my wand. That's not to say that it doesn't make me queasy occasionally. I'll admit that much to myself, I still get sick after. After being the key word now.

**I get through it now because I have to. **

Being here just reminds me more and more how much my life has gone to utter shit. I'm sitting here in Paris, albeit in a wizarding section of town, but still. It's utter bollocks. I'm sitting here, waiting for the dingy sooty sunset turn into night and waiting to go meet some witch He wants me to bring back to Britain to join our fight. I hate the idea of being his fucking package boy or some kind of trained retriever. **Go Boy, Fetch. Fuck Him. **

Just finish your coffee and get this shit done with.

***

I stand, and sod it, there are crumbs on my fitted black trousers. I find myself walking up the Champs Elysees in dark, staring into the lighted windows of the surrounding apartments. I'm only slightly aware of where I am, vaguely looking for her address. I feel odd on nights like this, the hairs are standing up on the back of my neck like I ought to be expecting something, but I can't figure out what. So instead I distract myself, smiling at a pretty young thing leaning out her window to smoke. She smile's back, the slightest wave of her fingers still holding her cigarette is all the acknowledgement I get. Something is wrong. I can feel it in the air—it's charged—it feels like lightning in the warm late summer air. But when I look up at the sky, there are no clouds, no impending thunderstorm to explain away the sensation that's making knots in my stomach. I don't know why I didn't draw my wand, but as soon as I looked up, everything stopped moving, stopped working. My arms were bolted to my side and I couldn't move. I had been hit with a well aimed _Petrificus Totalus_, but I hadn't heard anyone say the spell. It's funny, no one was around to see, but as soon as it happened, I let out a breath of relief, whatever was going to happen would happen and I couldn't do anything about it. I heard the quiet small steps of my attacker, and felt a slight rustling of fabric at my side as they pulled up my sleeve and retrieved my wand from the holster on my left forearm, over my Dark Mark. Then they were behind me again, and all I saw were two hands as the blindfold was drawn over my eyes. Just two small hands, with thin tapered fingers and several small silver rings—female.

***

"Finite Incantatem. Silencio. Imperius."

She'd hissed it all quietly, a vicious sounding whisper. The nonchalance with which she cast the Unforgivable on me makes me think she's used to doing it, but my mind is all clouded now. I can hear her voice, but the hiss is gone, I know that the spell is making me think of her positively, making me think I want to do anything she says.

"_Allons y_." **Go.**

I walk. I follow her instructions perfectly, after all I have no choice. A car pulls up, I can hear the tires grating and crunching against the cobblestone of whatever street she's led me down.

"_Obtenir dans la voiture_." **Get in the car**. She guides my hand to the frame of the car door, and I lower myself to the seat. I find myself scooting over, ridiculously not wanting her to have to walk around the car to sit in with me. It smells like cheap cigarettes and cleaning products, but my nose crinkles as I recognize the slightest hint—the acrid smell of vomit. **I'm in a Parisian taxi, Merlin help me**. She gets in, fidgeting to my right side and speaks quickly at quietly to the driver:

"_Nous porter à l'Hôtel Victorieux._" Her French isn't perfect, there's the slightest hint of an accent, as if she's from someplace else, but has been in Paris long enough to have learned to fake it well. I tell her so, in perfect French, as my parents own a vineyard in Provençal where I spent almost every summer of my life. I can practically hear her scowling. I smirk. Suddenly, I can hear her voice in my head, the perfect smooth sound of it, enticing me to heed her: "_M'ebrasser—lui faire le regarde comme si nous sommes des amoureux_."

**Kiss me. Make it look as if we are lovers**. That's what she said, but there was something about the way she pronounced the words that sounded familiar. I leaned forward, knowing where her face was despite the blindfold, and taking the nape of her neck in my fingertips, I pulled her in. She shivered a little under my hands, and I heard the tiniest of moans escape her mouth as my mouth found hers, the lightest touch of our lips. She ran her hand up my arm, leaving a flourish of gooseflesh in its wake through my clothes. Thank Merlin she can't feel it, or that would have been embarrassing. She tastes like cigarette smoke, lemon tea, and honey, but I can smell apples and cinnamon on her. It's faint, familiar and comfortable. I know it from somewhere, but I can't place it. Her hand, soft and yet ice cold, finds its way to the back of my head and under the curse as I am I can't even fight the growl deep in my throat. She digs her nails into my skin, and I growl again. I can't help it. The cab stops suddenly and the kiss is broken—crushed—as she leads me up two steps into what I assume to be the hotel she mentioned before. I hear some male voice, shaky and high pitched from in front of us greet her as _mademoiselle_, to whom she giggles and he assumes all that's happening is a lover's ruse. Once we're in the lift and moving again, she prods me in the back—I assume for good measure—and I hiss at the pain. She practically stabbed a half healed wound on my lower back, right about my hip. I can feel it tear and bleed a little, but she doesn't know, and I can't speak to curse her for doing it. More steps, I can't think straight enough to count them, to assess my nearness to exits, to formulate an escape plan. She isn't letting me think, damn her. I felt myself being seated, and my legs and hands being bound to the chair, and her hands, still chilled, opening my mouth.

"_Boire ceci_." **Drink this.** Damn her casting that Imperius. I swallow. I can tell by the smell, the warm tingling in my throat—it's Veritaserum. **Shit**. She removes the Imperius after I swallow, I snarl. She doesn't need it anymore. She laughs, but it's a bitter and humorless sound, and my skin crawls again. It's like I can hear her potential for cruelty and the fact that I can't see her isn't bloody helping. It makes me nervous—to know that only a few moments ago she was kissing me and it felt like heated passion and a soft woman under my hands, but now she sounds hard, cold, remorseless—untouchable. I start calculating immediately; if she is stupid enough to release me, I remember four paces into the room and at least twenty down the hall to the lift. I wonder abstractly whether or not I can Apparate out of here if I manage to get my wand from her, but I doubt it. I can feel the potion taking it's full affect, I fell warm, comfortable, like I have nothing to hide, and when I realize that she is about to start interrogating me, I am falsely unafraid. I know I cannot lie anyway, and the potion makes me feel like that's perfectly fine. **Damn. Damn. Damn. Shit. Bollocks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck**. My face resorts to a scowl, if my eyes were open they'd be glaring daggers at her, and my jaw clenches. I have no idea what she wants to know, but maybe if I clamp my mouth physically shut or maybe bite my tongue hard enough I can avoid her questioning.

***

She was watching him—struggling against the magic bonds on him and his seat, and against the effects of the Veritaserum. She found herself crossing her arms over her chest, self-satisfied with her work. She'd come here to research something, the darker tomes in Beauxbatons' library holding exactly the information she'd needed. She was walking down the Champs Elysees , absently rummaging into her bag for her cigarettes and lighting one—she'd looked up to see him walk into the street from some side-alley. He was unmistakable. The hair was the obvious marker, but when she held back and observed closer, the stride was the same. She watched him turn to flash a smile at a very attractive girl leaning out the window and seen his face in profile. Her certainty was overwhelming. She'd caught Malfoy—and without even meaning to. It seemed almost too easy, but she wasn't going to question her luck, only guarantee her success by making the first move. She took another deep drag from her cigarette and held it in her mouth as she moved, pulling the length of her hair over her shoulder and out of the way. She could sit on it if she left it loose and she didn't want the tables turning and him using her hair against her; braiding it quickly. She took another drag, threw the cigarette to the cobblestone street and cast her spell silently. She saw him stiffen and she smiled.

***

She's laughing again. I can't help the deep set, angry sneer or the snarl of frustration that graces my face. This time, when she speaks, I can hear the slightest rasp of exhaustion and bitterness. And when she speaks, and I can't think anymore.

"So, Malfoy. How are you?"

**Fuck me sideways. It's Granger. Well, now I know I'm fucked.**

"I've been better."

"Why are you in Paris?"

"He sent me to meet a witch and bring her back to fight for him." Shit. **I hate this potion**.

"Her name?"

"Don't know, just got her address…" I gave it to her. Fuck.

"How long have you been a Deatheater?"

"Since sixth year, but you know that already. And I know it's you, so will you take this fucking thing off me Granger?"

She hesitated before I felt her hands on my face again. I did not bother to pull away from her touch this time; it's too late for that considering we already kissed. Maybe she'll let me wash my mouth out before she kills me. She unties the fabric from behind my head, and it slides smoothly off my face. I realize now that it's a bright red silk scarf and she ties it back around her neck where it no doubt came from in the first place. She's standing there in front of me wearing Muggle jeans, a white chiffon blouse, a black matte satin corset and black heels. I won't admit that she looks attractive, her hair longer than I ever remember it being, braided loose and hanging over her shoulder. I won't admit the urge to ghost my fingers over the long curl that escaped the hasty braid above her ear, brushing against her cheek. **I will admit that I am an idiot—how did I not hear her heels on the cobblestone behind me?!** But then she seems to have been following my train of though and stomps her foot on the ground—no sound. She must have cast a silencing charm on her shoes. She smirks, a surprising gesture from her. My mouth falls open for the slightest moment before I snap it shut, but I know she saw it, and I can tell she seems quite pleased with herself. She levitates another chair to her position across from me and sits, confidently crossing her legs. She is going to continue questioning me. Fuck. And this time she's asking for the good stuff. She's out for blood. I answer as if numb, I can't stop my mouth from responding, and she actually has the nerves to take out parchment and an automatic quill. It deftly scribbles a transcript of our conversation while hovering beside her head, and when I'm not watching it, I can't seem to draw my eyes away from her face. Her eyes are tired, but determined, and there's anger and a bitterness there that I will never admit to be intimidating, but it is.

"Where is Voldemort's Headquarters? Who are the most prominent Deatheaters? Who are the lesser known servants of the Dark Lord? What curses are they most likely to use? Who are his spies within the Ministry? How many beasts has he gathered to his cause? Werewolves, giants, dementors, some Veela, vampires **and** Inferi? How many students has he recruited? From Hogwarts, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons? Who? What are there favorite curses?"

Then she asked me about things I'd never heard of…Horcruxes or some such drabble…I couldn't answer her. She went back to asking me about what the snake had been up to lately. It went on for over an hour. I was beginning to feel the Veritaserum wear off when she suddenly softened, even her eyes, and she asked me why.

"Why did you join him?" I responded, highly personal information escaping my mouth again tonight without my mind's permission.

"He threatened to _give_ my mother to some other Deatheaters and then kill her in front of my eyes if I did not save my family name from my father's earlier failure in the Department of Mysteries." She seemed confused for a moment at the word 'give' and then appropriately horrified. I find myself glad that I don't have to spell it out for her. But then my mouth is moving again, Damn it. If I could curse it off my face at this moment I just might do it.

"But my failure to kill Dumbledore earned her death and the death of my father anyway. Now he sends me on errands and keeps me around for some occasion when I might make myself useful as a corpse, I'm sure." She nods thoughtfully—too thoughtfully. I'm instantly on edge again, like in the street. Something is about to change again, I can feel it. There's a quiet knock on the door, and then the Weasel himself walks in. He pauses, looking at me as if to wonder whether or not I'm real, and then begins to laugh out loud. I growl.

***

She looks up at Ron and scowls.

"Really Ron, control yourself or get out." She's seething. She finds herself hissing out her words, her tone practically lethal in and of itself. Ron quickly becomes silent, and pulls a bag in from the corridor—the bag! They found it! Harry walks in at that moment, and immediately throws himself on the bed without opening his eyes. She hovers over him and quickly heals two somewhat deep cuts on his upper arm and a deeper one in his side. It looks like a stab wound. She turns a military heel and rounds on Ron, healing a gash in his scalp that he'd been ignoring quickly and with practiced efficiency. She could feel Malfoy's eyes on her as she worked in silence, she could practically feel his eyes roaming over her face and hands, and it was driving her crazy. But as she surveyed her work, satisfied that both Harry and Ron were all in one piece and without scars, Malfoy did something she did not expect. He winced.

In her periphery, she saw Harry peek up off the bed, thinking it was Ron who had made that pained sound and finally spotted Malfoy. His eyes widened for a moment, but she was probably the only one that noticed. Harry choked on his words for a moment, then rasped out three words:

"Nice catch, Hermione." Then he smiled broadly and collapsed back onto the bed in exhaustion, fast asleep. She let loose a small smile, or smirk, her pride of his acknowledgement tempered against worry for her friends' current exhausted state. She turned to Ron, pointing her finger at the other bed in the room,

"Go on. To bed with you." Ron took her serious tone and the look in her eye without question and moved towards the bed. Hermione pointed her wand at Harry and transfigured his somewhat tattered jeans, shirt, and long coat into soft cotton pajamas, and did the same for Ron's as he laid down. He smiled, thanked her and rolled over, already dozing off. Then she turned back to Malfoy. She opened a door behind him to reveal another room with two more beds, only one of which looked as if it had ever been used, and levitated him in, chair and all.

***

I saw the other room as soon as she turned this damn chair around. It's nice I suppose—darker than this room—so maybe I'll actually be able to get some sleep. Granger is looking at me, I can feel it. She's curious about something, but the Veritaserum has worn off, so she can't interrogate me anymore tonight. Oh Merlin, she's speaking, and I'm looking at her mouth again. Fuck. My new favorite word.

"Where is it?"

"Where is what Granger?"

"Stand up, Malfoy." She did not ask nicely, she commanded, so I acquiesced. She pointed her wand at me and I felt my coat sliding down my arms and levitating to the coat rack in the corner, then the buttons on my shirt coming undone. I knew better to assume anything ulterior in this action of hers—this was purely professional. She started by raking her eyes over the front of me, her eyes avoiding my left forearm pointedly, but she must have spotted a mark on my side and followed it to my back. I couldn't hold back a tiny smirk as she circled around to get a full view of my back. She just barely held back a little gasp, and then ever the professional; she set about healing the cursed wounds on my back. The Dark Lord had been displeased…when he'd done it.

I suppose they looked horrific to her, the fresh welted cuts overlapping old scars. I'm thankful, at least, that my scars are merely white lines, not raised or hard like some people get. She was cleaning them with some spell, one hand steadying me by the shoulder; her grip surprisingly strong for someone her size as she refused to even allow me to flinch when something stung. I could feel her trying to heal the sin, but I knew already that it wouldn't work. These just had to heal the natural way. She realized this soon enough, and ceased her spellwork. I could practically hear her hesitating…wondering whether or not to speak, and the exact moment she decided say whatever it was anyway regardless of risk.

"Is there anything else?"

"No. Just my back."

"Good."

The faint rustle of her jeans let me know that she'd turned around and suddenly she was handing me back my shirt, which she had cleaned and warmed. She points, almost without looking, to the other bed in the room and I take the three steps and sit. She raises her wand again, transfiguring my suit into tasteful black pajamas and then seems to be waiting for something…she doesn't wait long before impatience shows on her face.

"Well Malfoy, lay down. I'm not going to leave you free or unfettered, but I will be decent enough to let you get comfortable first."

Her tone is superficially icy, but I can hear the exhaustion thick in her tone, and now in the dim light of this room, I can see the circles under her eyes are much deeper.

I can't say exactly why I gave in so easily. I still don't know. Maybe I was tired. Maybe this was a nice change of scenery, despite the possibility of death in the morning as I had of course, already given her everything I knew. Maybe I was thinking I could get out of this later and somehow escape everything. Right now I don't remember. I just remember laying down, growling a little at the pain, and turning onto my side, facing away from her. I do remember not liking the idea of having her look me in the face all night.

Then I was immobile, frozen. To this day I don't know what she did, but I remember it being pleasant that the only thing I could do was breathe and listen to my heartbeat. Then I was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

I could feel the warmth of sun on my face, pouring into the room through the sliver between the curtains. I thought for the briefest of moments that nothing was wrong about this morning—until of course I tried to move my hands to rub the sleep from my eyes. And couldn't. Cursing under my breath, I remembered exactly where I was and everything that had happened. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die today. Or else be shipped off to Azkaban. If I could kick myself, I probably would.

You see, at this point, I'd gotten over the cowardice of my school days…desensitization I suppose, and a healthy dose of bodily dissociation to ignore the pain of my constant state recently. Sleep had for all intents and purposes become a wasted effort. Although, I notice now, that I feel quite well-rested at the moment, and that whatever healing she managed last night greatly lessened the pain of my wounds. **What an interesting and paradoxical development it is to realize you're more comfortable in the hands of your enemies and captors than that of your Master.** But then again, I really didn't feel awake enough to explore that line of thought for long anyway. Self-examination is not usually my thing—unless it's in front of a mirror, or an appreciative witch. Another thing I have not seen in a very long time. **Fuck. I shouldn't have thought of that**. It became quite rapidly apparent that sleep had also welcomed another old forgotten friend to rise to the occasion of morning for no other reason than to say hello—and me unable to either fix the problem or hide it. Fuck.

I heard the door open, completely silent aside from the shushing lull of it moving against the carpet, and I heard her moving about. Suddenly, she was crouching down in front of me holding a cup of tea in her hand—good, strong, black English breakfast tea. **My mouth was watering. **When she held it out to me, I realized I must be able to move at this point, and sat up while simultaneously pulling up the covers to hide the predicament in my lap, and reached for the tea with my other hand. She gave just the hint of a smile as I let out a tiny sigh of satisfaction at the first sip, and then she stood again and walked to her side of the room. Her movements were no longer silent, apparently since she knew I was now awake. It unnerved me slightly to know that she was being courteous about my sleep…Isn't she supposed to kill me today, not worry about my comfort?

She had woken hours ago. Sleep was a luxury these days. She rarely got more than a few hours uninterrupted by emergency or night terrors. She had had one last night—another horribly real and frightening dream from which she could not wake until the last moment. Although the dream content last night was different: usually, she dreamed about how the wizarding world would be if Harry were to lose against Voldemort, but in unspecific terms. She would see black cloaks and innocents suffering, and her friends all either killed or tortured into insanity. But last night—last night she finally saw her own hypothetical fate at The Dark Lord's hands: she saw all her deepest fears of being tortured, of being helpless, and finally her painful death by Sectumsempra. She was sure she could feel the spell cutting open her flesh, and her heart beating wildly under the wound, and looking up to see, for some unknown reason, Draco Malfoy's face. It had shaken her awake—the thought of his face being the last thing she saw—or more accurately how her heart had leaped at seeing him and how in her dream, seeing him last almost felt like a gift. She'd quickly gotten up and ready, braiding her hair and piling it up to hide it beneath a large floppy-brimmed hat and headed out to buy groceries for the day and pick up a copy of the Daily Prophet and the French wizarding newspaper, Le Monde Circe. Harry and Ron read the English and she the French, generally over a cold bread and cheese breakfast. Today they would share with Malfoy. When the boys woke up, she insisted upon this fact. Before the boys could even open their mouths to argue, she had shot them down,

"I don't want to hear a peep from either of you. I have a plan. He could help us. And I don't want either of you to bugger it up. I will hex your mouths shut if you make me."

"There's breakfast and more tea in the other room."

That was all she said as she walked out of the room, but the look on her face as she assessed me over her shoulder was so peculiar to me that I couldn't move for several more moments. Although I suppose my hesitation about facing Potter and The Weasel may also have contributed to my pause, one among many things I refused to think about presently. I stood and walked into the other room and sat at the small table by the open French doors to the veranda on the boulevard. It was so odd to think that it was a nice day outside, or to notice the smell of the azaleas on the windowsill, despite the apprehension I was feeling about the distinct possibility of dying any moment. I don't know why, but even if I don't have much to live for these days, I still don't want to die. **Bloody hell, that thought just hit me like ten stones of brick**. I don't know how long I'd been standing looking out the window, but I turned then and sat to eat. Potter and Weasley had their mouths shut…possibly a little **too** firmly. Granger gave me a weak smile and took a sip of tea as if ignoring that she'd quite possibly hexed her idiotic mates' mouths shut.

For some unknown reason, to me and to Merlin, I smirked at the thought. It suddenly didn't matter that I had already given her all the information I could, that my life-line with her was spent. It seemed she wanted me here anyway, and enough that she had physically restrained her comrades only served to confirm this for me. Pothead and the Weasel left briefly after breakfast, Potter had said something about going to back to look for "it" in a very significant fashion. She only nodded to dismiss them and continued reading her morning paper in French. I don't know why, but I found myself loath to break the silence, it seemed comfortable enough. Every few moments she would 'hmph' in agreement to something in the paper, and I would adoringly chew the fresh strawberry and clotted cream crepes, she would take a sip of tea, and I would take a deep breath of the street scents floating in the window. Eventually she put down the paper, and I picked it up, and while she glanced at me momentarily, she seemed to instantly decide that it wasn't going to hurt anyone for me to read the newspaper. **Fuck**. I kept catching sight of her face over the paper as she stared out the window, contemplating Merlin-knew-what, and I couldn't stop myself from doing it every few moments. In the morning light, the bitterness and fatigue I had heard in her voice was finally manifested and realized: She was battle-hardy, she had seen more than anyone ought to, and she was tired of it, but determined to end it on her terms. **Ever the tenacious Gryffindor Princess.** **Fuck**. It was impossible to look away from, something about that fierce look on her face in the morning light of Paris, it was powerful and, I won't say beautiful, but definitely sexy. Call it a family tradition if you will, but Malfoys can't look at anything powerful; beast, witch, even the Gryffindor Princess, without being attracted to it. I found myself scanning the newsprint for anything else that I could focus my attention on, and prevent my mind from going any further down my former train of thought.

While I was reading the national Quidditch scores, she stood and turned toward the other room, and as she walked and spoke, I found myself admiring her gait, longer than in school, decidedly feminine with her curved body, and yet formidable, there was that power again.

"Malfoy, I need to discuss a few more trifles with you today, and then we'll be heading somewhere else. Should you desire something to travel in other than those pajamas, let me know, and either we'll go out and acquire what you need, or I'll transfigure something else."

"Why are you telling me that?" It slipped out in a clipped and harsh tone before I could stop it, so I adjusted myself when I spoke again, "I mean, why are you telling me anything, I'm your prisoner, aren't I?"

Somehow my mind wandered during this brief exchange: in my imagination, Granger and I were here under different circumstances, this incredibly powerful woman in Paris with me, and wherever we were going today, she would lead me to some trite Muggle museum, to the palaces, to the public gardens, she would suggest crepes from a street market and sunning ourselves on the banks of the Seine with the locals, and at some point during the day between shops and wandering streets and canals she would pull me into a back alley and kiss me again, like she had in the taxi last night.

I shivered. I will admit it wasn't the horrified shiver I ought to say it was. It was a shiver of anticipation. I was momentarily breathless and rock hard, but thank Merlin, she had already turned and left the room.

She shook her head and turned away from him. She could understand how he might think that, the man wasn't a mind reader after all, but it wasn't the truth of things. She walked into her room and dressed in black skinny jeans, sturdy black boots and a black tank top. She packed a few essential clothing items into a black canvas bag and left everything else in the closet. She had taken to "buying" the three of them new clothes by shrinking items in Muggle stores and shoving them in her pockets. It was shoplifting merely to be practical: To blend in to Paris and her citizens, they needed to present a certain image, and they lacked the money to do it legally. Harry and Malfoy seemed to be about the same height, or more accurately, Harry was shorter, but didn't seem to believe her when she told him that men's clothing didn't need to be a size too big. She pulled a pair of trim black pants from the closet shelf where they stored extra clothes, along with a crisp pale-blue linen button down suited for the summer weather, and a fresh pair of socks. Malfoy had his own shoes, thank goodness.

When she came back out and set a stack of fresh clothes on the chair next to me, my mouth did that uncouth thing again when it hangs open in her presence. She was dressed efficiently, clearly ready for travel or battle, and I couldn't help but notice that my new clothes were much more civilian in nature. It seems that she had decided I was to stay out of things, since she was still in possession of my wand. **Damn and Blast,** I'm talking again:

"Thank you, Hermoine." **Fuck. Where the fuck did that come from?**

She hid her momentary shock well, her eyes only widening for a fraction of a second, and then she nodded curtly to brush off the moment and she busied herself between rooms…she appeared to be packing. Whatever depraved part of my mind had created the earlier fantasy, his voice slithered back into my mind, disappointed that apparently she and I wouldn't be walking in Paris openly as lovers and I would not be getting any kisses, in alleys or otherwise. **Damn**. I didn't mean to, but I felt my shoulders slump, and I know she saw it. At least she had the decency not to ask me about it at that moment. For some reason, I felt so thwarted right then that I might have admitted to her that my ennui was over a kiss from her, or the lack thereof. What the bloody hell is wrong with my brain today? I pulled myself upright with my usual scowl, the mask of conceited disgust and blasé superiority that I always use as self-defense; something about being here with her is softening me up. **Well fuck that**. Wherever she is taking me today, I will face it like a man, like a Malfoy, not a kicked puppy. I picked up the clothes she'd left for me and headed into the other room, the en suite bathroom more specifically. I needed to bathe and get dressed alone if I was going to psych myself up for the day, and somehow avoid the ridiculous fantasies I seemed to be entertaining today. Maybe she put something in that tea this morning.

She watched him carefully out of her periphery while she packed, gathering clothes more appropriate for London's cold wet weather, as well as all her recent research materials, maps, and survival equipment. This hide-and-seek game with Voldemort had gone on for three years longer than planned, constantly running, stealing, and hiding—anything to survive and stay alive another day longer to try to find a way to kill the bastard. Now outfitted with high-tech Muggle camping gear, they could weather almost anything; but this trip to Paris had been comfortable and practically a vacation after so many months and years on the run. She was packing up the last of the shrunken sleeping bags into Harry's small black canvas shoulder bag when she heard a yell from the other room, Malfoy.

Getting undressed wasn't as painful as usual, apparently something Granger had done last night had worked better than my own healing attempts, but it still stung a bit. The healing flesh had stuck to my pajama shirt in the night and when I pulled it off, some of the skin came with it. I knew better, at this point in time, than to get in the steaming hot shower I was hoping for. Hot water would only increase my blood flow and make my whole back sting like bollocks, so I turned the taps until it was lukewarm and stepped in carefully, chest and face first. Being constantly wounded made the most banal of tasks difficult for me, but I had adjusted over the last two years, I no longer bathed, dressed, sat, or walked in exactly the way I had before. I washed quickly and efficiently as possible, but my mind was wandering again. I tried speeding through washing my hair, but in doing so, I flipped it over my back too soon. The shampoo burned in the open wounds and even the impact of my hair was like being whipped all over again. A growl and a shout of pain was all I could get out of my mouth, I couldn't even articulate a curse word. I remember the pain exploding through my head, and then the familiar red-hot burning on my left forearm. He was calling me, but I could see the edges of my vision going soft, and somehow, the marble shower tiles were moving and blending together. Everything went black after that.


End file.
